


Walk of shame

by CommanderInChief



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: F/M, Humor, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 15:04:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5932659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderInChief/pseuds/CommanderInChief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the second Sarah Jane wakes up, she knows something is wrong...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk of shame

From the second Sarah Jane wakes up, she knows something is wrong.

Her first clue comes in the form of matted curls pressed again her forehead. They’re too short for a start – and they smell unmistakeably of soap. Another breath reveals them to carry the slightest whiff of washing-up-liquid lemon under gritty rubber that reminded her of old rubber gloves or wellies left out in the rain. Either way, there’s nothing of the sweet, ironically _earthy_ wood-smoke aroma that always clung to the doctor no matter _what_ planet they happened to be gallivanting on.

Small fingers explore the body on which she must’ve fallen asleep. It’s a small relief when they find the fuzz of chest hair as opposed to soft mounds of flesh. It would’ve sounded ludicrous to any other girl of her age (or of her time, anyway) but it wouldn’t have been the first time that she’d woken up to someone rather less… _equipped_ than she’d expected.

She presses her palm against the flat just under his left shoulder, then his right. One heart. Human.

…Probably.

That’s when she opened her eyes, feeling a ray of sunlight through a gap in the curtains as it throbs at the back of her head. Then, her vision fixes itself on the figure beside her. It takes a minute for her to adjust to the various tones of grey-blue, making out a hay outline of a man then vaguely distinguishable limbs then, eventually, a well-formed face.

Harry’s face.

 _Fuck_ _– what has she had to drink last night?_

Settling back down on his chest, she pieced together a collage of the night before.

Short skirts. Bitter champagne. A countdown to party-poppers and his mouth on hers against the filling cabinet. One thing must’ve lead to another and…

_And…_

Her free hand wandered away from his chest to slip under the duvet and check herself for clothes – or rather, their absence.

Disappointed, although not altogether surprised, Sarah wriggled out of his arms in a movement far more practiced than she’d admit. Going by the slight stirring of her bed-partner, she had about ten minutes before he came round. Hopefully, that’d give her enough time to find her knickers…

\---

Clutch-bag in hand, she was about to embark in her walk of shame when she heard the muffled footsteps patting against the laminate floor.

She had a choice: stay and deal with Harry or run out and hope that whatever he was drinking was strong enough to eat away the identity of her bra’s owner when it eventually showed up. Perhaps it was the idea of playing princess in the most modern take on Cinderella that she’d heard of to date that propelled her to take a seat.

She did her best to look nonchalant, barely looking up from the piece of hair she was twirling around her finger as he crossed the threshold of the kitchen. To Harry’s everlasting credit (and that _wasn’t_ a phrase she used lightly), he seemed to play along. Apart from a polite smile and a bright ‘morning, Sarah’ it was almost as if she wasn’t there at all. Although, knowing her travel companion, that was probably more to do with his hell-bent inclination to be old-fashioned to the point of being an utter prude than actually having the ability to read a social cue.

“Good morning,” she mumbled in response, now starting to weave the front of her hair into a thin braid.

“So, ermm… how did you sleep?” he asked, filling a couple of mugs with teabags and sugar “Because, you know, I was reading this _fascinating_ article the other day about how etha-”

“With you, apparently,” she cut him off before he could go and babble himself into an even deeper social pit of no return.

“Ah,” he carefully rested the teaspoon against the worktop before swallowing and turning to face the woman at his breakfast table “Sorry about that old thing,” he tightened the knot on his almost TARDIS-blue dressing-gown “If it’s any constellation, I don’t remember any of it – well, nothing specific, anyway. I must’ve had just as much to drink last night as you did, if not more-”

“Harry, you don’t have to apologise for sleeping with me, you know. We were both drunk and now we’re both regretting it so how about we just forget that it ever happened and move on?”

“Hmmm… on one condition,”

“What?”

“You let me buy you breakfast,”

“Fine – but you’re helping me find my underwear first,”

He had the decency to blush “Very well then,”

   


End file.
